


Agent of Affliction

by wormghoul



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Shadow of Revan, Unrequited Love, blood cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 06:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13141248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormghoul/pseuds/wormghoul
Summary: Lana Beniko can’t be in love with him. A Republic spy. Technoplague. Sith-Slayer.And yet, the flowers grew all the same.





	Agent of Affliction

It had started with a persistent dry tickle in the back of her throat, like something was reaching up from her lungs, laying roots to eventually choke her. Lana thought she’d caught something from the unfamiliar jungle and was suffering from some godforsaken backwater disease; but as easy as that should have been to cure, all the various treatments in the medkits weren’t doing a damn thing to stop the sensation, which was growing more persistent by the day. Theron noticed her little cough, too, and his eyes softened and his brow wrinkled each time she brought a hand up to stifle the sound. Stars, she hated when he did that - she was Sith, Theron wasn’t supposed to look at her with an empathetic pity. He was sired from Republic heroes, nearly her genetic enemy,  she hadn’t expected him to even care, but he did, somehow. He’d offer her a lozenge or a weak smile, and sometimes he’d even suggest a new mix of stims to keep her going. Lana told herself it was just out of a need to keep themselves friendly in order to maintain the alliance, but as their tenure on Rishi dragged on, it became clearer that her own pragmatism was masking something deeper, kinder.  

It made her chest tighten. She didn’t want to think about what that meant. It was akin to falling down a dark hole, to admit she felt _something_ for the Republic spy, and then to think, perhaps, that in some awful, roundabout way, he might have similar feelings for her, too. The thought set Lana coughing again, throaty and productive and the force of this jag had her doubled over in her seat.

“Hey, whoa, Lana,” Theron’s voice was gentle and his hand was warm on her upper back, rubbing slightly as she started to lose the battle of trying to clear her throat. She hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten up to kneel beside her. “Are you alright?” he asked, the worry in his voice sounding sincere as he pulled a tissue out of his jacket pocket and offered it to her. _Oh_ , that hurt. With one hand still wrapped dutifully across her mouth, Lana twisted to look over at him with pleading eyes, as he sat there with  the tissue dangling lamely from his fingers. What she was pleading for she almost didn’t know, it was several things at once mixed into a deep, dark tangle of wants. She wanted to stop feeling sick, she wanted him to stop being kind to her, she wanted to stop thinking that he was good and kind and...handsome, in more than just some roguish, Republic way. Theron’s brow furrowed and he wiggled the tissue at her again, so she snatched it up with her free hand and quickly wiped her mouth where spittle had formed at the corners of her lips. With her hand still hovering over her mouth she spoke, quietly.

“Yes, Theron, I -” she had wanted to say she was fine, or to say anything to get him and his sad eyes away from her, but as soon as she said his name she felt something rise from her throat and rest on the back of her tongue. She coughed again, feeling solid things fly out of her lips and into her palm. Lana held her hand fast to her mouth, eyes wide. Theron cursed and stood, quickly retreating to find a stim to quell the fit. While his back was turned, Lana opened her hand to see the offending objects.

It was a smattering of small, white flower petals, bespeckled with blood.

 _No,_  she thought, _Force, please, no_.

With a sigh, Lana closed her fist and incinerated them with a touch of lightning. The sensation burned her, and the Sith gladly turned that slight pain into fuel to push forward and stand.

“I’m fine, I just need some fresh air, likely” she announced as Theron returned with a handful of microinjectors in one fist. She watched him deflate, completely unconvinced. Uncaring, Lana smoothed the wrinkles out of her shirt before walking towards the door on frankly unsteady feet.

She was not fine, she was terrified. Lana knew what those little petals meant and now more than ever did she want everything to stop. But, of course, it didn’t. As she tried to push past him, Theron grabbed her arm to stop her. The soft curl of his fingers around her bicep sent heat burning down the length of her arm and straight into her chest.

“At least take these with you,” he said, reaching out to press the stims into her palm, closing her fist around them. “You’re not allowed to die before we save the galaxy, Beniko,” he chuckled and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were filled to the brim with concern. She broughy her own eyes to flicker over his face, watching as warm amber burned into wicked, red-rimmed yellow. He cared, she realized. _He cared,_ and that hurt her more than any of the coughing. Lana held her breath and swallowed the mouthful of air, trying to force her lungs and heart to stop quaking. It was all she could do before Theron dropped her arm and let her walk away. And when he did, by the Force, she nearly ran.

 

* * *

 

Lana found herself sitting in a clearing in the shallow part of the jungle, near a small stream. The incessant chittering of unknown creatures could be heard nearby, but she didn’t care, it was quiet enough and far enough from the safehouse for her to breathe easier than she had in weeks. At first she tried to meditate but all she could feel was a haunting, golden aura floating about on the slight oceanic breeze. Shaking her head to clear the haze, Lana inched closer to the stream.

Kneeling down, she leaned forward to look down at her reflection in the water. Her face shifted and shimmered and the look in her own eyes urged her to action, so she whispered: _Technoplague._ Something in the back of her throat stirred. She bolstered herself, blinking hard, pointedly not swallowing the sensation. She whispered again: _son of the Jedi Grandmaster_. The movement grew more persistent, morphing into a thick lump that sat just below her jaw. One more time, she whispered harshly and half choked: _Theron Shan._

With that she coughed and sputtered until a fully formed chrysanthemum floated on the surface of the water before slowly drifting away with the current. Tears pricked at her eyes. _No, not this,_ she murmured, wiping away the tears and then the blood on her lips. Watching the blossom drift out of sight ripped the air from her lungs, but she couldn’t help laughing anyways. It strangled her but she couldn’t stop. She giggled his name again and it came out sounding like a sobbing hiccup and tasting oh so sickly sweet. It felt bitter, too, as if it was twisted by her Imperial accent as it was carried away on the wind, accompanied by the tiny curled petals that also fell from her mouth.    

 _“Theron,”_ she said it again with the weight and malice of a curse before dissolving into coughs. He was beautiful but he was the enemy. Or he would be once they returned his ancestor to the ground where he belonged. And she couldn’t forget that Theron had killed her kind before, too, once with his damn near his bare hands even. But for just a moment Lana let herself imagine kissing him, and his lips were warm and laced with poison. But in her vision it was alright and she leaned into him, and death was golden like he was. When she opened her eyes though, reality was cold.

And then she screamed, not caring that her throat was already raw. The sound echoed off the trees and ground and made her shake with the conviction of it. Her hands curled into the dirt painfully. It was unfair. It was cruel. It was... _love._ In whatever, surely twisted way, she’d fallen for him. She allowed herself to cry out again, this time quieter, but still so full throated it hurt. But Lana couldn’t reach into her Sith ways and harness this pain. No, it was far too bright, far too silken, and nearly holy. It didn’t allow itself to be perverted into rage and fuel to stoke the fire burning low in her gut. This demanded to be felt on its own terms, it meant for her to struggle and sob into the dirt, to have her be brought low and humbled and forced to understand.

And by the stars, she wanted to remain ignorant for as long as she lived. She didn’t want to go back to the safehouse and see him, and sleep in a bed that smelled like him, and save the world with him...because saving the world meant she had to go on and on and on with this curse inside. Sith were supposed to feel acutely, but Lana couldn’t wrap her hands around Theron like a weapon. He was a weapon in his own right, but not hers to weild. Never hers. In fact, in one way or another, he would end her. Listening to the sounds of the stream, she couldn’t decide which she prefered. If he ended her with his hands around her neck or his name in her throat. Either way, it would be just as beautiful as the flower she bent to pick up off the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> congrats it's my christmas draft clean out. here's some hanahaki angst because I love Lana/Theron but I'm also pretty much incapable of writing fluff.


End file.
